Numbers
by Berne
Summary: He prided himself on his numbers; once you got past thirty-six the rest were easy. He usually left it to Gibbs to count the gold coins (Jack was slow with arithmetic), but counting upwards, downwards, sideways was Jack's pride...


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Title: Numbers

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Author: Berne

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Disclaimer: All belongs to Disney.

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AN: Muchos love to the betas, Ociwen and Thalia.

He prided himself on his numbers; once you got past thirty-six the rest were easy. He usually left it to Gibbs to count the gold coins (Jack was slow with arithmetic), but counting upwards, downwards, sideways was Jack's pride. Perhaps he couldn't write the numbers down correctly, but he could see them in his head, taking shape, curling, winding, curving. Besides, there was only one sum that he needed and he could remember _that_ one.

7 361 8 3705 3 4 24 303 = 4415

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7 is the number of seas he sails.

The most hospitable mistresses he had ever held company with. They bore him and his _Pearl_ across countless leagues, never once leading them astray, and he, in return, would never leave them. _Could_ never leave them.

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361 is the number of scales on a mermaid's tail.

He had asked, she had given.

Clever little beast, she was, with eyes almost as old as the oceans that held her. Gold-spun hair. Peacock eyes. Rows of shark's teeth that glistened under bloody lips. He had not been the first captain to be tempted by dear Lorelei, to be sure, but he was the only one to live to tell the tale. Captain Jack Sparrow _always_ lived to tell the tale.

He had woke the next morning in some Tortugan gutter, stale rum on his breath, shark-teeth bite on his shoulder, a single golden tress twined into his hair.

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8 is the number of shards his sister's vase cracks into as it shatters beside his head.

He had called her a whore, quite honestly. Some women could be eminently unreasonable. It was her profession, her choice, he had reasoned as she irritably pushed the landlord's head from out her skirts. He had nothing against strumpets -- what would Tortuga be without them? After all, he gestured, pirate!

Apparently there _was_ something worse than being a whore.

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3705 is the number of days over which Hell visits Captain Jack Sparrow.

The _Black_ _Pearl_ was taken from him and he had died.

He had lain back in the sand on that godforsaken island and he had waitedwaitedwaited for his mistress' caresses to dampen his boots, breeches, shirt, headscarf. He had died and he had expected her to take him. Had asked, no, _begged_ her to take him. He had bargained, reasoned, fought her, but as the searing sun edged towards midday she retreated, never fulfilling his hoarse demands.

And he had almost hated her.

But she knew him better than he could ever have hoped. _The _Pearl_ is still out there_, she whispered, as she crept up his body once more, the night encasing them in a velvet blanket. _The _Pearl_ is still out there and she needs you._

The next day he found the rum.

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3 is the number of words he can write in Russian.

He had sailed to Russia in search of ice. He had heard tales, of course, of this much-sought luxury. Water that was frozen, and he had imagined how fine it must be for the Siberian Ocean to be able to hibernate for the winter, preserved while her legend spread across the Caribbean.

She was worth a fair bit of gold, too.

He had been young and he had been warned and he had had to promise an immoderate amount of gold that he never intended to pay in order to tempt a small crew to help commandeer a ship and to sail under his command. And then they had arrived and the men had gasped and attempted to preserve handfuls to sell back in the Caribbean -- and he had stared.

His mistress wasn't sleeping. She was _dead_.

Or equal to.

Trapped under sheets of ice that ripped through the hull of the ship more efficiently than any coral reef could. This was as far from her as he could possibly be and he had cursed his ever coming here. He had cursed, and the men had cursed as their numbers dwindled. They had no understanding of how the cold could kill a person -- heat, aye, but cold? But when the men's fingers turned blue and tongues froze to the roofs of their mouths the signs were considered Not Good.

He, of course, understood. If the sea could not survive the knife-cold temperatures, what chance could they possibly have?

But seven of them did survive and six of them cursed their Captain and dropped him off at the nearest port. Tokyo. Jack didn't consider this a mutiny -- the ship did not like him and, besides, he had jumped overboard before they even had a chance to weigh anchor. So happy was he to see his mistress swelling and waning with the moon.

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4 is the number of seconds it takes for Captain Jack Sparrow's skin to boil.

He didn't shriek, thankfully thankfully thankfully. He didn't shriek but instead cursed something terrible, a string of profanities that would have made even Giselle blush. But he didn't shriek. Not quite. He had lashed out, of course, because when a smirking bastard of a sailor thrusts a glowing brand at you, you can't help but think that whatever is coming next is going to hurt. And it did, God, it did. Painless for the first three seconds, but on the fourth his skin bubbled and let off a stench so strong it took all of his pig-headed stubbornness (as Ana Maria so agreeably christened it) not to throw up right there. But he got square -- stole the blackguard's ship the following new moon.

She was pretty, a black pearl amongst diamonds. She danced, she sung, she _spoke_ to him. Whispered her secrets as he caressed her hull, and his mistress had laughed, delivering them both safely to Singapore.

The brand no longer stood for _Pirate_, but _Pearl_. The _Black Pearl_.

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24 is the number of petals on his mother's grave.

They drifted to the bone-dry earth like butterflies and Jack stared, enthralled. He had never seen a butterfly before, but this is how he imagined they would look, bright colours dancing on the air currents, wings fluttering like sails in the nor'easterly breeze.

Except these petals were not exotic butterflies. They were the wilted off-white of weathered canvas without any direction, and they were stolen from the vase on the front counter of Mr Bigg's brothel.

He contemplated the rough wooden crucifix idly. His mother wouldn't have liked _that_ on her eternal resting-place. She would have sneered and thrown it at one of his sisters. One of whom was, coincidentally, studying her nails intently beside him, looking bored. Jack was bored, too, but he was also very much aware of the deeply pitying looks their landlord's wife was shooting at them.

So he studied the earth once more, imagining his mother down there, wrapped in cloth, already being nibbled at by worms and bugs and other creatures that she had loathed almost as much as her clients. Now she had only the earth to keep her company when the moon was up.

Jack had to bite his tongue to stop him from sticking it out in disgust. If he ever died he would want a funeral at sea. She would look after him and she would caress him into the afterlife, carry him down to the depths. He wouldn't suffocate under sand-dry earth and worms wouldn't eat him. Sharks, mayhaps, but it was improbable that many insects lived under the sea. Perhaps mermaids would find his body and make necklaces from his teeth, like in the tales told at _The Artichoke and the Leper_. He wouldn't mind that too much, as long as they replaced them with gold. Pirate gold that _he_ would have stolen -- borrowed -- commandeered. Nautical term.

But for now he would make do with smuggling for old Billy T., he decided, slinging an arm around his sister's shoulders as she broke into a fresh wave of fake tears. Aye, business was profitable and, after all, he was only eleven. The whole ocean was stretched out before him, calling him home. He could hear her sometimes at night, above the grunts from downstairs; he could hear her and she wanted him.

The next day the earth had shook and everything changed. The sea had got impatient and come for _him_, sweeping over the town at an impossibly high height and carrying him away. She had almost killed him in her excitement and had apologised abundantly over the years for her faux pas.

But Jack was happy.

The island was gone and he had been found by real pirates and he was the only one that understood her, scaling the rigging every evening just to get a glimpse of the fading sun on her glittering scales.

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303 is the number of lashes on Anamaria's left eye.

He thinks that Moses' Law is not a scratch on these lashes. These are as dark as the _Pearl_ and almost as beautiful. But he would never tell her this because he is uncertain of her reaction, and he is not inclined to feel the sting of her slap anytime soon.

They flutter like butterflies or petals when she is sleeping and shield him from the ice-knife-cold glare he would receive if she _were_ conscious of what he was doing. _Bloody daft, you are, _she would grumble_. _These lashes don't leave behind trails of blood the colour of a mermaid's lips, but are soft. At least he imagines they are. She is pretty; a black pearl amongst diamonds, prettier than any whore he has ever seen, including his sisters.

What he feels with her is a muted version of what he feels between him and his _Pearl_; him and his ocean; the _Pearl_ and his ocean; the moon and his ocean; a muted version of what he had felt in the cave, dancing death with Barbossa amongst mountains of the calling, beckoning gold.

He smiles, satisfied, feeling the _Pearl_ sigh sleepily into his spine. Anamaria sighs, too, as she presses herself so that every part of her _Pearl_-dark skin is touching his, wrapping around him like a velvet blanket the colour of night. He closes his eyes and smiles. Things are as they should be.

He prided himself on his numbers; once you got past thirty-six the rest were easy. He usually left it to Gibbs to count the gold coins (Jack was slow with arithmetic), but counting upwards, downwards, sideways was Jack's pride. Perhaps he couldn't write the numbers down correctly, but he could see them in his head, taking shape, curling, winding, curving. Besides, there was only one sum that he needed and he could remember _that_ one.

7 oceans 361 scales 8 shards 3705 days 3 words 4 seconds 24 petals 303 eyelashes =

4415 =

Captain Jack Sparrow.

Yes. He would always remember that one.


End file.
